


Epiphany

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [57]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Religion, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9122080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: The gods fight, and one wins





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's fic about 3x06. I'm sorry.

In the dream, Athelstan was floating.

The lake under him was warm, and tiny gems of sunlight sparked on its ripples. He lay on his back, arms outstretched, looking directly at the sun; doing so didn't hurt his eyes. He was naked—he felt the water lapping at all parts of him—but he was neither ashamed nor cold.

All was quiet, but for a gentle breeze rustling through the tops of aspens, their bright-green summer leaves full and abundant.

A shadow passed over the sun. He heard the calls of ravens. He felt himself being pulled, though his body remained still. This way and that, the forces tugged him, gently at first, then insistently. The skies grew stormy. Thunder rolled. The sun fought for purchase among the clouds, shoving arms of light in between them, pushing them away even as they roiled and spun.

He began to sink, but then felt strong, familiar arms around him. "I have you," the rough voice whispered in his ear. "Rest with me, and let this pass." He lay his head back, resting it on a warm chest while the battle raged in the skies overhead.

With one final, mighty burst of brilliance, the sun finally shoved its way through and the clouds dissipated. Ravens complained. The arms around him loosened, but remained. The sun entered his body and pulled. Up, up, up until he could no longer see that his physical essence remained below, still encircled in that safe embrace.

He opened his eyes.

 

*** 

Ragnar felt as if he had stopped breathing. The worst part had been seeing Athelstan's naked wrist. The arm band officially bound him as a thain, and gave him the mark of a free Northman, that he would not be questioned. It was this pledge of loyalty that, he knew, pushed Athelstan to divest himself of it. His God was a jealous one, and would bear no oaths to others. 

Yet he could not help but feel that some of the rejection was personal. Ragnar had been meeting Athelstan in the middle ground between their faiths, and was slowly but surely crossing the line toward Athelstan's. Yet Athelstan had now leapt back from that line, putting himself virtually out of reach. To meet him again, Ragnar would have to break into a run, entirely abandoning his own culture and faith of origin, and that he could not quite do. However much he wished he could simply abandon everything and run off into the wilderness with his beloved, such a thing was simply not possible. He was king. He had responsibilities: He had family and duty, and now, thanks to the horrific news given him by the elderly, broken man whose passing he had eased, he also had revenge. 

He had begged Athelstan not to leave. "Let us still go to Paris together," he said, after the initial shock had passed. "You wanted to see the city again, yes? You do not have to fight. You do not have to kill Christians. Just come with me. Be with me. Be by my side. Be the thing that makes me want to return from battle. I will make sure others keep you safe while I am away fighting." Athelstan hesitated, and a look of momentary doubt crossed his face. "Please think on it," Ragnar implored, and Athelstan finally nodded.

It soon became apparent that his pledge to protect his beloved could not be so easily kept. 

The arm ring made a deep _thunk_ as it was set down on the table before him while he took his evening meal, otherwise alone. It took all his force of will not to snatch it up. 

"You know what this is," his eldest said. 

"Of course I do, Bjorn." He tried to sound nonchalant, though he could not take his eyes off the gleaming brass.

"Then why is it not around Athelstan's wrist?" 

Ragnar set his jaw. He shrugged. 

Bjorn's nostrils flared. The boy's one weakness—though others had always seen it as a strength—was his quick and intense passion. He approached everything like storm-churned waves against rocks. He would not be dismissed with a lie or a simple story.

Ragnar finally let himself pick the thing up. "He took it off," he said, a hint of a quaver in his voice.

Bjorn ran a hand over his head and sat down heavily on the bench opposite his father. "Are you two not . . ." he waved a hand. "Is he leaving you?"

"No!" Ragnar felt the swift burn of tears wetting his dry eyes. "Yes . . . I am not sure." He stroked a finger across the ridges of the band. "He has returned to his faith."

Bjorn shifted in his seat and fidgeted. "So he is a Christian after all, then?" 

Ragnar nodded. "It would seem so." 

"And what about you?"

Ragnar's eyes narrowed, and he looked up. "What about me?"

"Are you a Christian now, too?"

"How could you say such a thing?" Ragnar barked. "I am loyal to our people. You know that."

"That is not what I asked," Bjorn said. 

Ragnar rolled his eyes. "My faith is the same as it has always been." He tried still to dodge the question, however futile such a tactic was. Then, a moment's panic took him. "Wait. Where did you get this?"

Bjorn now looked defensive. "Floki gave it to me. He said he saw Athelstan throw it into the fjord."

"Floki," Ragnar muttered. He felt his hand ball into a fist. "Who else knows about this?"

"I have told my uncle. Rollo saw me carrying it and wanted to know."

Ragnar slammed the fist down into the table. "You should have come to me, first!"

Bjorn drew back, and folded his arms over his chest. "That was my intention. Floki wanted me to tell everyone, but I wanted to hear it from you. I wanted to give you a chance to explain." 

"There is nothing to explain," Ragnar said. He rubbed his belly, where a knot of worry had been growing since yesterday. The few bites of stew he'd had were threatening to return. "Athelstan's faith is none of your concern. Nor is mine. As your father and your king, I am telling you to disregard this."

Bjorn sighed. "As you wish. But Floki will not. You know that."

"I am aware of that," Ragnar grumbled. 

Bjorn rose, and began to aim for the door. "I should be with my wife and child," he said. "But one last question."

"What?"

"Is he still coming to Paris with us? Because if people know about this, they may worry that he could be a Christian spy. He would not be safe."

Another flare of panic rushed through Ragnar. "Get out," he demanded, as if he could make his son's concerns leave with him. "Go." 

The moment the young man was out of sight, Ragnar began to sob.

The preparations for Paris had once held great joy for him. Now, they were only an annoyance—meaningless busy work that kept him from Athelstan's side. Their relationship had indelibly changed, however. Athelstan seemed more sure of himself, now, but it was more the confidence of the foolish, it appeared. He seemed to know he was in danger—word had definitely spread—but also seemed unaffected by it. They rarely had moments alone, and when they did, Athelstan seemed preoccupied. They were still physically close—taking meals together, sharing warm embraces on breezy nights, but further intimacy seemed to have been forgotten. Athelstan had not said that he was returning to his monastic vows, but Ragnar would not have pushed the issue anyway. 

The night that the ships came was different. To Ragnar's surprise and delight, Athelstan arrived in the Great Hall wearing again the shirt that had once been his own. Though the absence of his arm ring was noted very publicly by Rollo—Ragnar made a mental note to upbraid him for this—Athelstan seemed to be none the worse for wear by his hostile reception. Pleased to make Sinric's acquaintance as a fellow seeker of knowledge, Athelstan had taken to the wanderer, and had listened intently to his fanciful tales. They talked long into the night about foreign customs and languages, and shared information on places each had been that the other had not: Athelstan to another island west of England; Sinric to lands farther south than Frankia, where different animals, plants and people dwelled. Once their guest had retired, and the rest of the assembly seemed to be well into their cups, Athelstan took Ragnar aside. 

"Come with me," he said softly, with an inviting smile. 

He had not had the time to visit Athelstan's quarters in far too long. Their now-spare appearance was somewhat shocking. All of his things but the essentials had all been bundled up and packed away, yet they were not prepared for transport. 

"You are not coming to Paris, are you?" Ragnar said, his throat tight.

Athelstan smiled sadly. "You know I cannot. You must, though. You must see it for me." 

Ragnar began to protest—to beg reconsideration—but the words disappeared when his lips were covered by Athelstan's. 

It was, in many ways, as if nothing had changed. Their bodies still fit together as if they were made for each other, their kisses and caresses still instinctive. Ragnar already knew every inch of Athelstan's body, and he traveled those familiar paths with great love and care. Athelstan was fully present for him, meeting his eyes, giving as good as he got, laughing and sighing. When it was over, they fell asleep, bodies entwined, Athelstan's breath light and steady against Ragnar's chest. 

The next day, Ragnar felt as if he had been swarmed by a cloud of stinging midges. Final provisions were being laid, and ships were being loaded in preparation for sailing the following morning. Everyone had questions. Everyone had things they wanted him to do. Floki was still at his own home; people wondered aloud whether the shipbuilder would be joining them. For his part, Ragnar was grateful for this. Floki was the last person he wanted to see right now. The first person he wanted to see, however, was also nowhere to be found. They crossed paths only briefly: both arriving at Bjorn's home to see his daughter. The baby soon broke into fits of hungry crying, however, so both left. Ragnar meant to follow Athelstan back to his home, but was pulled aside by his wife. 

"I wish you good fortune," she said. It sounded sincere, yet there was also another note in her voice. 

Ragnar frowned at her. "What are you not saying?" 

She looked away. "Ivar's nap should be ending soon. I should go."

He grabbed her arm—more roughly than he had meant to. "Have you seen something, Aslaug? Tell me what you have seen!"

Her expression seemed to waver: at one moment a sad smile, at another, fear. Still another, defiance. "Paris will be difficult for you," she finally said. "That is all that I know." 

She knew more, he could tell, but he also knew trying to get anything else out of her would be futile. Releasing her arm, he let her go. He looked back down the path, but couldn't see where Athelstan had gone. And then yet another person needed his attention. 

*** 

He never was sure if his dreams were only dreams, or had meaning. Such was the gift of prophecy, the old man had learned long ago. Whatever their purpose, most nights they were at least unpleasant. His people and his gods were in constant conflict; a dream of a peaceful meadow would have been incongruous at this point. 

Perhaps that was why this one woke him. Things in his vision were peaceful—unnervingly so. In his mind's eye, Kattegat was quiet. So were every one of the other villages and cities he had known or dreamed of. A powerful sense of loss permeated the silence. The gods were bitter, he felt, yet also he could sense they felt defeated—staggering home like a wounded foe. He felt angry on their behalf. 

Once actual consciousness returned to his mind, he thought more carefully about what he had seen. With a grunt of understanding, he rose. 

It was very early dawn. He could not see the sky as it turned pink, but he could hear the birds, and feel the mists of night beginning to evaporate as the air warmed. There were rustles here and there in Kattegat: Someone filling a chamber pot. A baby's cry. A goat bleating softly. Yet most still slept. One should not, however, he decided.

The king's voice was sleepy and full of irritation when he came to the door. Then, on realizing who was there, he became alarmed, begging to know why. 

"You had better come with me," the Seer said, his heart heavy. "Your life is about to change." 


End file.
